The men were talking about the progress of the war. They were speculating—or rather arguing—about what the Allied strategy would be following the surrender of the German and Italian armies in Tunisia. I sat with them, drinking coffee, listening to what they believed would happen when the men who had been fighting in North Africa began to push into Italy. Fred Bechélet would almost certainly be part of that invading force, if he was alive. I wondered if Merle had heard anything. I’d been so preoccupied in the past few days that I hadn’t asked her.
None of the men spoke about anything personal. Like last time, we used code names when addressing each other. I had no idea where any of them would be heading when we reached France. And I was certain that no one on the boat except Jack knew that my first destination on landing was to be the Ursuline convent in Lannion. As I glanced from one face to another, I couldn’t help thinking of Miranda, who had sat with me, like this, just a month ago. I wondered if these men ever thought about death, whether the energetic debate they were engaged in was a way of shutting it out of their minds.
La Coquille got underway a couple of hours before sunset. The agents went below to play poker as we pulled out of the harbor. They invited me to join them—even offered to teach me how to play when I confessed my total ignorance of card games—but I told them how rough the sea had been on the way out of the Scillies last time and said I’d better stay up on deck in case I got seasick. It was an excuse, of course: I hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words with Jack since we’d left Cornwall. I was desperate to talk to him. He’d left me dangling by a thread after the dance. I had to know what was going on in his head.
“I thought you might like some help,” I said, as I went into the wheelhouse. “I can take the binoculars if you like—or the wheel for a while, if you prefer.”
He handed me the binoculars without a word. I stood beside him, scanning the horizon for anything that might represent a potential threat, wondering all the while why he was so silent, why, now that we had the opportunity at last, he didn’t seem to want to speak to me.
“I looked at the radio parts,” I said, still peering through the binoculars. “They’re small enough to fit under a skullcap, which would be a good hiding place because the wimple sits on top of it. The explosives I’ll strap around my waist and across my back. The robe and scapular should camouflage any lumps and bumps.”
I heard him draw in a breath. “How long is it since you’ve ridden a bike?”
“I was seventeen. But they say you never forget.”
“Have you studied the map?”
“Yes.” I lowered the binoculars. “When I get to the convent, I plan to sew it to the underside of the veil—the part that hangs down at the back. Then I can flip it over if I need to read it.”
“It sounds as though you’ve thought of everything.”
I wondered why he didn’t sound pleased. I stared into the distance, at the red ball of the sun sinking into the sea. I could hardly believe it was only two nights ago that he’d held me in his arms and whisked me across the dance floor. I told myself I shouldn’t be surprised that he was taciturn, cold, even. But I sensed that something was amiss, that I’d done something to make him want to distance himself from me.
“Is something the matter? Have I done something wrong?” I turned to him, but he didn’t look at me—just kept his eyes fixed on the horizon.
“No, Alice, you haven’t done anything. It’s . . .” He hesitated, as if he were weighing his words. “It’s not you. Forgive me—I’m not very good at sentimental stuff.” The stubble on his jaw caught the light as the muscles tightened. “I don’t think you realize how fearful I am of losing you.”
The boat shook as a wave caught the bow. Spray spattered the window. I felt as if I were watching a film in slow motion. Had I heard right? Had he really said that?
“If anything were to happen to you, it would be my fault.” He turned, looking straight at me for the first time since we’d left Cornwall. His eyes glittered red with the reflection of the dying sun. “That day, when I found you on the beach, I made a very selfish decision. I should have let you go when you recovered—to Falmouth or some other place.”
“Selfish?” I stared back at him, bewildered. “Why do you say that? You said I could save more lives doing this than by being a nurse.”
“And that’s absolutely true—but there was an ulterior motive for persuading you to stay.” He held my gaze. “When I saw you lying there on the sand, and realized you were alive, I felt as if I’d been given a second chance.” He shook his head slowly. “Remember when you said that all you wanted was to do some good in the world? Well, so did I: I wanted to make up for the person I’d been, for what I did to Morwenna.”